Chapter 10
CLEAR THE ZONE: SENDING THE PUCK OUT OF THE DEFENSIVE ZONE
Doors and cabinets are slammed as I shove groceries away. It’s completely indicative of my mood after seeing the ease with which that guy was with Amy.
My Amy.
Listen, prick. You’re the one who abandoned her. Remember?
Bracing my arms against the counter, I try to center myself. Does it surprise me Amy moved on? No. But I can’t deny the territorial feelings surging through me. Years apart is more than enough time to build a life, to let someone else step into the space I abdicated.
Sure, I dated. Nothing serious, nothing that could touch my heart. I taught myself how to smile across restaurant tables and pretend I wasn’t comparing their looks, their brains, and every touch to a woman I let go.
So, why am I having this response after all this time?
The realization hits me sideways, sharp and unwelcome. She moved on.
And whose fault is that?
I scoff aloud. “Easy. Mine.”
Then I’m overwhelmed with the memory of Mark tentatively broaching the spread of the rumors.
“Dude, I’m not certain if you heard.”
“What the hell are you going on about?”
“There’s this rumor going round…”
I make a derisive noise. “When isn’t there a rumor?”
He turns toward me. “This one impacts you.”
My brows draw together. “What do you mean?”
He clears his throat. “Actually, more Amy than you.”
My body locks up, tension invading every pore. “What is it?”
After Mark told me, I felt like I’d taken a puck to the nuts without any protective gear. My Amy would never have done this. The woman I was prepared to spend the rest of my life loving could never.
But she did. Or did she?
Once Mark showed me the photo, there was no denying it was her as I could easily see the constellation of Orion tattooed on her shoulder—a tattoo I used to trace with my lips when we were making love.
But instead of those memories being just ours, she was in front of a mirror showing off her flat stomach, ample breasts barely restrained by white lace, and smooth shoulders.
It was a vision of her I hoarded as all mine.
You still think of her as yours.
I want to tell my conscience to fuck off. But standing here now, even the photo means less. It’s background noise to the understanding she’s lived a whole life I wasn’t part of. I feel…not just jealousy but I know it’s something worse than regret.
What I feel is that I let my judgement go to waste.
What did I do?
It’s then I conclude there has to be more to Amy’s side of the story I don’t know about.
I pace the living room, wishing with every fiber in me that I could throw on a pair of skates and exercise this restless energy out of me. I feel hemmed in by the safety of the walls, the comfort of the space.
I recall something Amy told me about Willow Creek from when we were dating.
“Willow Creek isn’t loud.”
I smooth a hand through her long hair. “No?”
Her head shakes back and forth, tangling her hair around my fingers. Perfect. “It doesn’t overwhelm you with noise or distraction. It just…exists. That’s what makes it so wonderful to return home.”
I stop pacing and lean my hands against the kitchen counter, head bowed. Anger simmers beneath my skin at myself. Because if I’m honest, I don’t just hate that Amy moved on with someone else.
I hate that we never found our way back to one another.
Eventually, my feet carry me down the hallway toward the spare bedroom. I pull down a box labeled “College.” Still taped shut. Like some part of me knew that once I cracked it open, there’d be no going back. Crouching down, I tear through the tape.
Photos spill out first, sliding across the floor in a careless cascade even as heartache blooms. Amy was my person.
I twist, so I’m no longer crouched down but instead resting against the bed as I sort through memory after memory. I dig my hand into the photos and feel my throat constrict.
This one was taken the night we went to the Delta Phi party. It was after she’d had a drink spilled down the front of her dress. I was too late to stop the carnage but I remember every minute before Amy headed to the bathroom to repair what she could.
Delta Phi throws the kind of party you can hear three buildings away—bass thudding like a second heartbeat, people shouting over music that’s already too loud, laughter sharp with alcohol and bad decisions.
The whole house smells like alcohol, sweat, and red jungle juice they serve out of a plastic trash can like it’s a sacred tradition.
I don’t want to be here. Not because I don’t like parties. I do. But tonight I’m hyperaware of one thing and one thing only:
Amy.
She’s standing beside me in a white toga that shouldn’t look as good as it does.
Most people treat the theme like an excuse to wear bedsheets and call it a night.
Amy somehow makes it look intentional—pinned at one shoulder, falling just above her knees, her hair loose like she didn’t try but absolutely did.
She keeps tugging at the hem like she’s worried it’s too short, which only makes me more aware of exactly how much leg it shows.
“You’re glaring,” she says, leaning closer so I can hear her.
“I’m not.”
“You absolutely are.”
I drag my gaze away from a group of guys across the room who’ve looked at her one too many times. “Just making sure no one bumps into you.”
Her mouth curves. “Brennan, you don’t need to be playing defense.”
“Someone’s gotta.”
Before she can retort, Brielle’s voice cuts through the noise. “Brennan!”
I close my eyes for half a second in agony even as Amy giggles.
Brielle materializes in front of us wearing a red toga and gold heels. She reeks of expensive perfume as she reaches out to touch my arm. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
“Found me,” I say flatly, jerking my arm away.
Brielle ignores Amy entirely. “You disappeared after the game last week. I thought maybe you’d want to celebrate.”
Not subtle. Not even a little.
Amy starts to shift, like she’s about to cause a scene. I catch her wrist gently before she can move.
“Stay,” I murmur.
She relaxes in my embrace, glaring at Brielle.
Brielle’s smile tightens. “Aw. That’s cute. But I’m sure your little…girlfriend wouldn’t mind if I borrow you.”
“I do,” I say.
She blinks. “What?”
“I mind.”
The music pounds around us, but a small pocket of space has opened, people sensing tension the way sharks sense blood. “I’m here with Amy,” I continue, each word deliberate. “Plus, I’m not interested. Not now, or ever.”
Her expression hardens with disbelief. “You’re joking.”
“No.”
She glances at Amy with open hostility. “Her? Seriously?”
Something in me snaps.
“Yeah. Her. Because she’s smart, she’s kind, and she doesn’t treat people like they’re disposable.”
Brielle’s face flushes an ugly red. “You’ll regret this.”
“Doubt it.”
For a beat, I think she might lash out. Instead, she spins on her heel and disappears into the crowd, muttering something vicious over her shoulder.
Amy is staring at me like I just spoke another language. “You didn’t have to do that.”
Yes I did. Because you matter. Because the idea of you thinking I’d choose anyone else makes my chest feel like it’s caving in.
Instead of speaking, I tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, my fingers brushing her cheek. She leans into the touch without realizing it, making my heart swell. “Because I wanted you to know, I’m not looking at anyone else.”
Her breath catches.
For a second we just stand there, the party fading into background noise, the world narrowing to the space between us. Instead of using more words, I kiss her.
One hand slides to her waist, pulling her closer, and she makes a small startled sound before melting into me, her fingers clutching the front of my shirt like she needs something solid to hold onto. She tastes like fruit punch and something sweetly, unmistakably her.
The crowd whoops somewhere nearby, but I don’t care. Nothing exists outside the warmth of her mouth, the way she fits against me like this is exactly where she was meant to be.
Then when Amy pulls back, something splashes across her shoulder and chest. A red tide of jungle juice soaks into the pristine white fabric.
“Sorry,” one of the Delta Phi rushes mumbles.
Amy looks down at herself, stunned, cheeks flushing deep pink as the liquid clings and darkens the thin material.
My jaw tightens. Across the room, I catch a glimpse of red fabric and gold heels disappearing into the crowd.
“How could I just walk away? Why didn’t I listen to her?” What made me believe Amy would post that photo?
Before I can answer my own questions, my phone buzzes in my pocket, startling me. I almost ignore it, but something tells me it’s important. Pulling it out, I wait for the blue dots to finish before reading.
Mark:
Hey. You around this week?
Lunch? I really need to talk to you.
Got some information to share.
Maybe it’s because I’m sitting amid the ruin of my relationship with Amy, but his words trigger alarms. It’s exactly what he said to me when he told me about the photo.
I stare at the message, and feel a dark knot settle deep in my gut. I’m reminded of what the doctors told me months ago. Some injuries don’t resolve with time.
I type back before I can overthink it.
Me:
Name the time.
Mark:
How about the day after tomorrow?
Me:
Just let me know where.
Mark:
My penthouse? We won’t be disturbed.
The phone goes quiet again, but my mind doesn’t. I pick up the photo closest to my hand—Amy laughing, eyes bright, completely unguarded.
The certainty I’ve held onto for years begins to fracture.
What if I was wrong?